"Ah," said my father, "there is a woman for you."
The last few minutes seemed to have wearied him, for he sank back heavily
in his chair. For a minute we were silent, and suddenly a speech of his
ran through my memory.
"May I ask you a question?" I inquired.
"It is my regret if I have not been clear," he said.
"It is not that," I assured him, "but you have appeared to allow yourself
a single virtue."
He raised his eyebrows.
"You have admitted," I persisted, "that circumstances force you to keep
your word."
"That," my father said, "is merely a necessity--not a virtue."
"Possibly," I agreed. "Yet, in your conversation with Mr. Lawton you
stated that you had given your word not to surrender this paper. My
question is--how can you reconcile this with your present intentions?"
For almost the only time I can remember, my father seemed puzzled for an
answer. He started to speak, and shook his head--drew out his
handkerchief and passed it over his lips.
"Circumstances alter even principles," he answered finally, "and this,
my son, is one of the circumstances. Brutus, the boy has been trying to
get me drunk long enough. Show him to his bedroom, and bring me my cloak
and pistols."
Brutus lifted one of the candlesticks, grinned at me, and nodded.
"A very good night to you, Henry," said my father tranquilly.